Logs:Space Holiday

Space Holiday
Dramatis Personae Clint, Rocket
In Absentia	2024-12-12 "I've never gotten a present for Major Depression."
Location <NYC> Briefing Room - SHIELD HQ
Briefings occur in all kinds of rooms here, but this is the briefing room in all its minimalist space-age glory. It's dominated by one long oval table surrounded by comfortable rolling chairs. The glossy black tabletop is one enormous touch surface, with a large central holoprojector as well as separate smaller ones at each seat hidden cleverly under the glass. In case that wasn't enough screen for your briefing needs, the walls are also screens. Today the wall screens are just displaying one long astronomically correct star field, because they are absolutely superfluous to the consultation. Or maybe someone thought it would be comforting to their consultant. Regardless of which, the consultation is over, though the big holoprojector has not been shut off yet and is just displaying a very retro 3D rotating SHIELD emblem. Whether the agents have been adequately briefed is an open question, and most of them look a bit dazed as they file out in pairs and small groups. Clint does not look dazed. He has worn the same blandly neutral expression the entire time, which one might be tempted to read as an indication of boredom, but certainly not confused boredom. He's not in a suit like his fellow agents, but in black tactical gear that suggests he's either coming or going from a mission or training. He's getting up now, tucking his glasses into one of myriad pockets and giving their consultant a single upward nod as he turns to go. While Rocket has finished giving his presentation to the now-dazed agents, he still seems to be fussing about moving the SHIELD emblem around the table, as if trying to find a better spot for it. "Hold up, Barton." He only spends a few more moments fussing before he just flings the emblem away with a gesture, sending it bouncing chaotically around the presentation space. "You got a sec?" The space raccoon slips his hand into one of the many pockets on his navy blue flight suit with yellow trim and produces a little key for the briefcase he had brought in. Clint stops mid-turn and squints at Rocket, pulling his glasses back out and tapping it. "Yeah." He watches the stylized eagle bounce around, tracking it with his eyes without moving his head. "Thanks for the presentation. And educating us backwater bumpkins, generally." If he's sarcastic about the label he gives no indication. "What can I do for you?" "Yeah, well, it's only fair now that you're a planet that is trying to act like it's post-contact. Guess you've been post-contact for a long time, but in a more hush hush way. Your government sure hates telling people about stuff, huh?" He nods slightly, pops open the briefcase and slides it over. Inside, there is a squashed looking package in festive wrapping paper with rocket ships patterned on it. Clint purses his lips. "They sure do. Can't blame them for the Asgardians, though. There's probably a betting pool somewhere in this building about which pantheons are actually ancient aliens." He looks in the briefcase, looks back up at Rocket, eyebrows uplifted, but he doesn't ask the question lightly written there. He lifts the package out of the briefcase gingerly and unwraps it also gingerly. "Is this for some kind of...space holiday?" "I'd take good odds that your most dysfunctional deities are the aliens. It's usually the ones who go on galactic benders who end up as gods," says Rocket, "If they have their shit together in the stories, then that's just unrealistic." He grimaces at the question from Clint, but stays quiet until the unwrapping has completed. Inside are three arrows, each with an instruction tag tied on it, and a plush raccoon puppet. "I wish we got space holidays! We have to make them up if we want them. Like 'I don't want to get out of bed' day, or 'work's too hard' day, which on your planet I think they just call," Rocket raises two fingers in a mock quotation marks, but only with one hand, "Major depression." "I'm not a comparative religion expert, but I get the impression most of them are dysfunctional. Might be a job figuring out which are the least together." Clint stops in the middle of his unwrapping. Then starts again, slowly. He squishes the plushie lightly on some kind of reflex, then tucks it into the crook of his arm so he can examine the arrows. "Rocket. You didn't have to." When he looks up he doesn't actually look at Rocket first, but sort of up at the ceiling like he's searching for something there he will not find, becaues it isn't a screen. Yet. "But I do like arrows." He does look at Rocket, now, mouth tugging in a small and lopsided smile. "Thank you. I've never gotten a present for Major Depression." "I wonder if there's anywhere out there that I'm the fuck-up god." Rocket shakes his head and scratches the back of his neck. "Well, I figured that guy's gonna be a better roommate than I was. You know, I appreciate you putting me up when I first got here, so I wanted to..." He waves his hand and looks towards the emblem again, seeming to search for a distraction. "I wanted to make it up to you. I figured I'd take what I learned from taking yours apart to..." He trails off. "You know. Happy Major Depression." "You were fine, really. I overreacted." Clint rolls the arrow back and forth in his palm, feeling out their balance. "Should have cut you some slack, considering what you'd been through. It's actually pretty impressive you managed to take them apart without breaking anything, not knowing how they went together to begin with." He's studying the arrowheads intently now. "I want to see how these shoot almost as much as I want to know how you made them. Sci-Tech tries, but..." He shrugs one shoulder. "Not a lot of fletcher who can pull off this crazy shit." The balance of the arrows speaks to the meticulous nature of Rocket's craft, though he says, "It's 'cause I got nimble fingers." He wiggles said fingers, which are probably also helped by the fact that they are very small. Though the quick wiggling is fairly convincing. "Since I was a little thing, I've had an instinct for taking stuff apart. That instinct kept me alive." He grins toothily, "But it gets me in trouble, too. I wanted to see their construction, but you gave me hospitality. And alcohol. Instinct's hard to resist, but that's why we've got huge smart brains to steer us elsewhere." He points both his fingers at his head. "Oh. The briefcase. It's not part of the present, by the way. That's mine." "I would've shown you if you'd asked." Clint doesn't actually sound very committed to this admonishment. "Maybe. I'm...particular about those arrows, but I'm not actually a gearhead. Might just learn a thing or two from yours." He holds up the arrows and starts to put them away before realizing with a muffled grunt he is not wearing a quiver. "Sometimes huge brains steer us into trouble, too. Good thing I also like trouble." He closes the briefcase and slides it back to Rocket. "If you want to stop by my place sometime. I still got plenty of alcohol for made-up holidays."